


Pillow Fight

by majestic_shriek



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-01
Updated: 2012-10-01
Packaged: 2017-11-16 09:35:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 733
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/538055
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/majestic_shriek/pseuds/majestic_shriek
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After their pillow fight, the boys are quite tired...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pillow Fight

**Author's Note:**

> This was a fill for [ this prompt ](http://eightdaysakink.livejournal.com/670.html?thread=17822#t17822W) over at the kink meme, [](http://eightdaysakink.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://eightdaysakink.livejournal.com/)**eightdaysakink**. I immediately thought of them all collapsing onto a bed after the famous pillow fight picture. And this was born.

“Fuckin’ hell,” John breathed out, collapsing down onto the bed beneath him, pillow still in hand. “You got any more great ideas, Mr. Photographer? ‘Cos I’m just about burned out, don’tchaknow?”

Harry Benson shook his head, checking all the bits of his camera were back where he needed them to be. “Think that’s all for now, lads,” he said, nodding at them. “Catch your breath, like. I hear you’ve got a busy one in the mornin’.”

“Cheers, Harry,” said Paul, whacking him on the back with a pillow. “See you later, yeah?” Harry nodded again, and left the room, leaving the four boys behind him still breathing heavily from the exertions of the last few minutes.

“Ooof,” huffed George as Ringo dropped down beside him. “Move over, would ya? You’re taking up all the space.”

“It’s not me,” argued Ringo, shifting uncomfortably, “it’s John, he’s claimed over half of the space as his already.”

“I’ve claimed it in the name of Lennon,” said John, stretching out even further. “I’m fucking exhausted, and I need me rest.”

“Fuck off,” mumbled George, under his breath, but he didn’t attempt to move. All that running about between rooms had taken it out of them, and George wasn’t particularly looking forward to going back to the wreck that was his room. Movement was out of the question.

Paul moved to the foot of the bed, and whacked his pillow down on the feet that were poking out, three sets, one next to the other. “What about me?” he asked, smacking the pillow again for good measure. “Where’s my space, eh?”

“Get your own, McCartney.” John had his eyes closed now, on the way towards sleep, but Paul wasn’t having any of that.

“Fuck off, Lennon. Budge over, go on.”

“Fuck off yourself,” was the sleepy reply, along with an eyeroll from Ringo.

“Sorry, Ringz,” said Paul, “but Johnny’s reply is not on, I’m sure you’ll agree, so excuse me whilst I barge my way in here, won’t you?” He hardly waited for Ringo’s grudging response before he was clambering over the pair of them to wedge himself between them.

“You fuckers!” complained George, clinging onto the blankets, “you’ve almost had me off the edge.”

“Get in closer then, you idiot,” said Paul, carving out a space for himself, which was proving difficult as John was refusing to move. “John. Johnny, move your arse, you great lump. Or I’ll sit on you.”

“I don’t know why I put up with you,” John replied, but he moved his arm up and over Paul’s head, and shifted slightly to the side, giving Paul a bit of room.

“Thank you,” sang Paul, mock sweetly. “You’re a darling, love.”

“And you’re an annoying bastard. Shut up.”

“I’m uncomfortable.”

“We’re all uncomfortable,” retorted George, “because this bed was not made for four.”

“Well, I’m not moving,” said John, which was quickly followed by agreements from both Paul and Ringo. That would be too much effort.

“We’ll just have to get in a little closer,” suggested Ringo, ignoring the glare George was sending his way. “Like --” and he put his arm up and around over George’s shoulder, pulling him in closer. George had to admit, it was more comfortable, held secure by Ringo, but he wasn’t going to be admitting that any time soon.

“Get here then, John,” said Paul, not wasting any more time that could be spent in the more pleasant pursuit of sleep, and he grabbed John around his waist, dragging him towards him before John could protest. Paul pushed himself closer to Ringo, finding an arm resting on his shoulder. He didn’t know whose it was at this point, but quite frankly, he didn’t care.

“Fucker,” mumbled John again, but Paul could tell by the way he was relaxed in Paul’s grip, and by the sleepy tone of his voice, that John didn’t really mean that. John never meant a lot of what he said.

By the time Harry Benson knocked on the door in order to retrieve his lens cap, and having received no answer, had cautiously entered anyway, there was merely a pile of sleeping Beatles on the bed, snuggled up close. He slipped in as quietly as he could to retrieve the cap, but he couldn’t resist just one more shot. One more shot of them as so few would see them. Happy, and content, and together.  



End file.
